


Of Coversations and a Beginning

by grittycupcakes



Series: Noah Czerny and Decaying: The (After)Life of a Teenage Murder Victim [3]
Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: I gave Noah's Mom a name, Pre-The Raven King, The Thrilling Third Installment, not really - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-03
Updated: 2016-09-03
Packaged: 2018-08-12 18:27:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7944769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grittycupcakes/pseuds/grittycupcakes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Noah spends time with Adam and Roger Malory's dog; Calla and Orla have a chat; and Adele Czerny has some things to consider and things to do.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Coversations and a Beginning

Calla isn’t sure what to make of Noah Czerny, and she doesn’t like that. She, like everyone else at 300 Fox Way, can see him, talking outside with Blue or getting out of Gansey’s car or snickering with Ronan about something in that BMW in the parking lot of the grocery store. Most recently, she’s seen Noah Czerny stand behind his sister during her reading and stare at her like a kicked, very sad puppy, and then walk her to the door.

The girl could not see him. Calla hadn’t needed to touch her, though, to know that Adele Czerny had known her brother was there.

“Maybe we should help her.” Orla says, bringing Calla out of her brooding; she’s upside down in the corner of the room they do their readings in, doing aerial yoga. She’s forsaken the tank top she usually wears when she does this, so she’s left in a bra the same shade as Orla’s nails - a poisonous purple.

“How?” Calla’s not going to argue, because she agrees that Adele needs help - with what, though, she and Orla might disagree with. “How do you suggest we help her?”

Orla’s _clearly_ thought about this quite a lot, because when Calla spins enough to look at her, she’s watching her with an intensity that she didn’t know Orla had in her. “Well, for one thing, we keep her from trying to resurrect him herself.”  An obvious statement, but Calla agrees with it. “Then,” Orla says, after having waited a solid minute to give Calla time to respond, “we figure out how to resurrect the dead.”

Yes, Orla and Calla were going to disagree on _that_ part. “ _Or_ we get her _not_ to resurrect the dead boy.” Even as she says that, Calla has a feeling that will be a feat not even she can accomplish. It’s not one she likes. “The boy’s dead, and he’s decaying. There’s no saving him.” Calla’s voice is a snarl, but that’s only because it always is.

“No saving him?” Calla can’t see Orla’s face, but it probably looks like the girl just took a big bite out of a lemon. “Of course we can save him!”

“With _what?_ ”

“Cabeswater.” Orla says. Calla untangles herself from the fabric that was holding her up and stands. “It’s where he died, isn’t it?”

“Probably.” Noah and his friend had been trying to perform the same ritual Adam had - instead of hands and eyes, Noah’s friend had offered up Noah’s life for the sacrifice. It hadn’t worked, but according to Noah, it almost had. 

“Then he has an attachment to it.” Orla looks triumphant, holding her mug with both hands and looking at Calla smugly.

“That doesn’t mean it likes him the way it likes the Snake.”

“Well, he’s here, ain’t he?” And he is, though Calla can’t understand why. She’s never actually talked to the kid, never touched him, but she doesn’t have to. He’s a decayed thing that shouldn’t be able to speak but is speaking anyway. Orla can’t read minds, and her brand of psychic works best on the phone, but she obviously knows Calla well enough to know that Calla got her point, and she looks smug about it.

Calla needs to stop spending time with her.

Orla sits back in her chair and sips her noxious tea. It’s clear she thinks she’s won this argument. Calla takes her hair down from its ponytail and sighs. For now, at least, Orla’s won. “You still got that girl’s phone number?”

 

\---

 

Adam is bent over an engine, and he doesn’t know that Noah’s here. He’s been at Boyd’s all day, putting in extra hours. It’s his only job today. If Adam wanted he could be out with Gansey and Ronan - not Blue, though. Noah’s pretty sure that Blue’s at Nino’s today. He drums his fingers on the workbench he’s sat on, focusing.

Yes, she’s at Nino’s, currently refilling someone’s sweet tea.

Across the room, Adam grunts and pulls away from the engine, shaking his hand. Noah can’t tell what he did from over here. Adam wipes his hands on his handkerchief, trying and failing to wipe the grease from his fingers.

To get his attention, Noah knocks a screwdriver off the bench. It clatters to the floor, and Adam looks up, startled, a deer in the headlights, or one of those wide-eyed kids in antique photographs. When he sees Noah, he visibly calms down and sighs. “Noah,” he says, relief and something else in his voice.

Noah waits. When Adam doesn’t say anything else, just looks at him, he hops off the bench. “Didn’t mean to scare you.” He says, smiling at him. Adam still doesn’t speak, and raises an eyebrow. There’s a quirk to his mouth that’s both exasperated and fond. It’s a lot like the look Gansey sometimes gives Ronan when he’s not looking, or the look Ronan gives Chainsaw or Matthew when they are looking. “Okay, yes I did.”

Adam’s smile grows wide. He wipes his hands on the cloth again. “What’re you doing?”

Noah shrugs. “Watching.” Adam snorts. It’s obvious that he doesn’t think that’s a good response. Unfortunately for him, it’s the only one Noah has.

Adam waits for a moment longer, then turns on the radio and goes back to his engine.

Noah’s always been in awe of Adam’s ability to focus on something. If there’s something he needs to do, Adam’s going to do it; working three jobs? Adam gives his focus to each one while he’s working. Homework? He’ll sit down in his crummy apartment and read through his US History textbook and get those notes done in an hour. Cabeswater calling? He scrys for that, to try to figure out what it wants, while leaves unfurl against his cheek. Or he’ll use tarots to interpret Cabeswater’s needs. The way his lips purse and his brow wrinkles is always fascinating.

Noah prefers to watch Adam like this, though. Working at Boyd’s with a cloth through one of his belt loops, fingers stained with grease or oil, bathed in yellow artificial light. Oldies playing on the radio, a quiet hum; and Cabeswater just a smidge farther away than usual.

He looks more alive, like this. In the sun he’s washed out, a little less substantial. The only other time he sees him at his liveliest is when Adam’s communicating with Cabeswater. Then, his eyes are electric instead of faded; the air around his gets heavy and humid, like a grove of trees right after a rainstorm. The colors that make up Adam are more saturated, the blonde of his hair less dusty and more like sunshine. His skin looks gold.

Magic, Noah thinks, is what Adam was born to do. Born to be with, near, and apart of. Magic suits him.

 

\---

 

Despite what her recent Google search history might lead you to believe, Adele Czerny is not a witch, or a devil worshipper. Adele Czerny is just trying to resurrect her ghost brother. It’s all perfectly innocent, really. Not like she’s trying to build an army of zombies to take over the world or something.

Of course, Adele can’t exactly tell her nosy mother about any of the things she’s realized in the past months. Chiefly, that her dead son’s soul is trapped in limbo or something and still exists on their mortal plain. So, when she gets home from a shopping trip and is faced with what’s probably her search history from the last week at least, there’s not much she can say.

Thankfully, Mom decided _not_  to involve her husband. Michael Czerny, despite not having been to a single Sunday service in over a decade, is surprisingly religious, and might escalate the situation. Considering the fact that Wanda Czerny, mother of three and likely one of the least unflappable people to exist, _ever_ , has printed out Adele’s search history, he would definitely not be a good addition to the conversation that’s about to happen.

Adele sighs and sets her bags down. Wanda Czerny stares at her, eyes narrowed, hair pulled up into a sleek ponytail that emphasises her pointy eyebrows. This is not going to be fun.

Wanda is sitting at the head of the table, arms crossed over her chest. In front of her are stacks of papers; on the top Adele can see the Google logo. Knowing her mother, Wanda’s probably gone to each of these websites and printed out their homepages.

They stare at each other for a solid minute in silence. Birds chirp their songs outside, accompanied by the wind. The clock behind Wanda ticks away the seconds. Finally, Wanda closes her eyes and pinches her nose. “What,” she says, slow, measured, “is this?” She gestures with her other hand at the papers in front of her.

“A gross invasion of privacy?” Adele asks, mimicking her mother’s earlier posture, arms crossed.

“Don’t take that tone with me.” Wanda says, opening her eyes and narrowing them at her. It’s a lot like the way she used to talk to Noah when he got _another_ speeding ticket. Adele feels a rush of pride, electricity in her veins. “I want answers. _Now._ ”

Adele sighs, and closes her eyes. “It’s just stuff for a story, Mom.”

Wanda’s thin lips are pursed when Adele opens her eyes again. “A story.” She repeats, voice thick with disbelief.

“Yeah.” Adele says, like she’s talking to one of her less intelligent classmates. “Like, an article? For the campus paper?” There is no campus paper, but Wanda isn’t involved enough to know that. And Adele rarely lies to her mother, so if she’s lucky, Wanda can’t tell what Adele looks like when she lies.

Wanda blinks, like a deer in the headlights. Adele watches her, barely breathing. After a moment, her mother slumps in her chair, all her self-righteousness gone. She looks like every one of her years has been a weight on her shoulders, and finally, they’ve been lifted off her shoulders.  “I didn’t mean to worry you.” Adele says, taking a step closer, reaching toward her from across the table.

Wanda sighs and shakes her head. Adele’s hands drop to her sides. “I’ll… Shred this before your father gets home.” She says, gesturing to her stacks of papers.

“Thanks.” Adele stays standing there for another moment. Then she takes her bags and heads upstairs. Once inside her room, she locks the door.

Adele has a lot of thinking to do, among other things. She doesn’t want to be interrupted.

 

\---

 

The Dog is no longer allowed to sleep in Noah’s room. This wasn’t decided by Noah; instead, it was Malory’s decision, because the Dog had marked his territory all over the room, and Malory did _not_ want to sleep in a room smelling of piss.

So the Dog has been exiled to the main room, just as Noah has been. So it’s just Noah and the Dog and Gansey, who’s finally sleeping at a somewhat normal time, thanks to his secret phone calls with his secret girlfriend. The good news is that the Dog isn’t peeing in Noah’s room anymore, and it takes less time to take him outside if he really does have to pee.

The downside is that the Dog is a couch hog.

It just lays there, taking up the entirety of the couch, instead of all the other places it could lay. It's not really sleeping, just existing. The Dog could do that in Gansey’s scale-model Henrietta, on Main Street, or under Gansey’s desk, or among the piles of books and Sports Illustrated issues and Coke cans. The Dog could lounge underneath the pool table.

But no. The Dog is inconsiderate, and doesn’t give a shit if Noah’s ghostly ass is sore from sitting on the floor. Instead of the Dog, it’s Noah who lays among the magazines and books and garbage that sits near Gansey’s desk.

He should start a civil rights movement for ghosts, and other undead beings. He could come up with a catchy name and a cool logo, and elevate the social status of ghosts everywhere. At least, in the US. Make forcing someone to lay on the ground just because they’re dead illegal. The Dog looks at him lazily. It’s like a challenge. Noah scrutinizes it, thin lips pursed. Gansey snores quietly in his bed, oblivious to the injustice Noah is facing at the hands-paws?-of the Dog.

Noah looks at the ceiling. He can’t even see it, it’s so dark. Above him, all there is is blackness. It feels fitting.

Panting mingles in with Gansey’s snores. Feet patter against the floor, nails scraping. The Dog flops down on Noah’s chest and licks at his chin. Noah pets its head and closes his eyes.

**Author's Note:**

> Adam! Finally, I've written about Adam. Also, I've given Mr. and Mrs. Czerny names. I feel like they deserve them.  
> Talk to me on tumblr, maybe? I'm @k-e-i-l-y  
> Comments are always appreciated. They make my day. They clear my skin, get rid of my asthma, and just give me life in general. Thank you, if you write one. And thank you anyway, if you don't, because you read this far.  
> 


End file.
